Prima Facie
by RivErStaR
Summary: Ten minutes is all it takes.


Title: Prima Facie

Author: RivErStaR

Rating: PG-13

Archive: AI. Anywhere else just ask me.

Feedback: tietheknot27 at yahoo dot com

Summary: Ten minutes is all it takes.

Spoilers: None, unless you haven't seen the season 2 episode Bright Boy or any of season 3. It's set after F.P.S.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from the Criminal Intent 'verse isn't mine. It belongs to Dick Wolf, Rene Balcer et al. I own the plot and the few original characters who make their debut. I'm not making money from this either.

Notes: I've been sitting on this idea for a very long time. I've had the beginning part written for about 6 or so months but I just could never be bothered to expand on it, then when I did, what I'd written didn't do anything for my first part and I felt really disappointed so I locked it up and vowed to never write again.

I then started talking to Beka and I sent her the good part of my fic and told her what I had intended for it to be. She got excited and demanded that I finish it. So to did Trace, who actually gave me the Australia Day deadline. And while I'm just under an hour late, I think I did pretty good considering I wrote it all in about 5 hours. It's unbeta-ed so the mistakes are mine.

Dedication: For Trace, who has always believed in me and my writing and has been a great friend and for Beka, for telling me that my writing doesn't suck even when I didn't believe it. I heart you guys!

-xxx-

Ten minutes. Six hundred seconds. Six hundred thousand milliseconds. Six hundred thousand million nanoseconds.

The numbers, all symbolic of the same length of time, race through his head.

He is reminded of an article he'd once read in one of those 'Science Today' journals he buys; an article about some assistant professor's research into the power of first impressions. As he stares through the glass into a small, monochrome room, Goren is still – unmoving. Watching. Waiting. Thinking.

What he remembers most about the article is that it showed how the course of future relationships were influenced by first impressions, and how earlier research had wrongly assumed that it took days for the impressions to actually affect its future. The new theory, however, had proved that impressions were formed much more quickly – within a matter of minutes; or, more precisely, anything up to _ten_ minutes.

Ten minutes. Six hundred seconds. Six hundred thousand milliseconds. Six hundred thousand million nanoseconds …

And a lasting impression is born.

-xxx-

The bodies he sees through the glass are numbered – one through four. Every number, printed in a big, bold, black font on white place cards, identify each individual, and Goren's sombre expression softens as his mouth creeps into a tiny, sad smile.

"Times New Roman." It's an Eames one-liner. Only this time, she isn't around to say it. And he misses that. He misses _her_.

It's not just her presence he misses either; it's some of the more simple intricacies too. Things he didn't know he'd noticed until they just weren't there anymore. Silly things like her '_Little Miss Tiny_' book (he'd laughed with her at the "Little Miss Tiny is tiny. In fact, even Mr Small is bigger than Little Miss Tiny" description); and the rainbow of pens she owns lined up in their usual, almost somewhat anal, ROY G BIV order.

You don't get to mess with Alexandra Eames and her colour co-ordination and live to make an epic of it. He'd learnt the hard way that while he knows art and artists, she knows colours and their complementariness. And her reason?

"I like colours."

There was nothing more to it. Just a simple, three word clause. I. Like. Colours. No more, no less. No secret hidden agenda, no back-story. It was purely Eames. And he loved it.

_All_ of it.

Refocussing on the bodies in front of him, Goren scans the line once and then once more before resting his gaze on Number One; a podgy little porker and much bigger than his room mates. His head is dusted with a fine coat of white-blond hair and he has pale skin to match, however, his eyes, are mesmerising. They're open wide and the deep cerulean pools shimmer with innocence in the white fluorescent light as they dance around the room absorbing all there is to see.

Marring the pale alabaster of his right upper thigh is a purplish red pigment abnormality. Not a bruise, Goren's mind concludes, the colouring isn't quite right. A birthmark or needle puncture perhaps. From this distance, however, it's not entirely clear; even with his forehead pressed hard onto the glass. He sighs and his breath fogs the window up. He's itching to get in there, frustrated that he can't, and, annoyed that he can do nothing but watch from the outside.

Number Two is quite a bit smaller than Podgy and his dark yellow-olive complexion is sharp and contrasting.

'Eames would hate that,' he thinks as he looks back and forth between the two. 'The colours just don't quite fit.'

And he's right. There's something about the yellow-olive that makes the alabaster of Podgy a sickly shade of yellowish green – a sign of Jaundice, which probably isn't the case here, it's just a case of bad colour co-ordination; something that isn't listed in any medical encyclopaedia he's read. It doesn't really matter though; none of the four are going to be in there for long.

Unlike Podgy, Olive's eyes are brown and his head is covered with short, thick walnut coloured hair, suggesting a European or Hispanic lineage. His expression is vague and blank, like he's miles from where he really is, and he shows no interest in any of the others. He's calm and quiet and, apart from the casual blinking and rise and fall of his chest, he could be dead.

Beside him, Number Three giggles and thrashes her arms around; her movements making up for Olive's relaxed motionlessness. She's nothing to look at, average even, but there's something intelligent hiding underneath her boisterousness. Her fingers twirl through the air as if their movements are helping her solve complex equations and Bobby is reminded of a case he worked with Alex about a year and a half ago.

"You need a million bucks that bad?" she'd said when she caught him mulling over the Riemann Hypothesis and he'd had to laugh. While the money had been tempting, the mathematics surrounding the problem were too advanced, even for him, so he'd just launched into a spiel about the 'true' meanings of omega, theta and infinity – Robbie was suicidal.

Eventually David, Robbie's father, was brought to justice after the child had explained how he'd deliberately messed up; how he'd only wanted to play baseball on Saturday afternoons like the other kids. It was unfortunate for all involved that David stopped at nothing when it came to Robbie's success so he was arrested and the young boy was allowed to live with his aunt and uncle and lead a normal life.

Goren smiles. Six months after the case was closed, he'd received a letter and photo from Robbie. It was similar to the picture Alex had shown him in the boy's room – the one he'd digitally placed himself in. It was different though in that Robbie was actually there and he was happy. There was no strained smile; none of the wariness Bobby had seen in his face during the investigation; and most importantly, there was no wrong shadow looming over his face. It was real. Much like the glee he sees now in Giggles' expression.

A thud startles Bobby out of his thoughts and with a wry smile, he shakes his head at Number Four.

"Silly little Monkey."

It's obvious to Bobby that of the four, Monkey is the mischief-maker as the thud, he realises, was created by an expensive monitor crashing to the floor. Monkey's eyes are wide, not with fright, but with a playful, impish 'I didn't do it' look and Bobby can't help but chuckle.

"I didn't know expressions are hereditary," he says, still laughing. He can't count the number of times he's seen that very same expression on Alex's face.

The combination of his features is unmistakeable. From his pert little nose, rosy cheeks, deep hazel eyes and elfin grin, he is clearly of Eames's kin. The ever-cheeky Monkey is the child his partner played surrogate for and, the child who took away his foundation for five months, three weeks, four days, nineteen hours, thirty-three minutes and eleven seconds.

He thought he would house feelings of contempt towards the child, but looking in at him now, Bobby feels nothing but warmth and affection. His partner gave this little boy life. His Eames. His _Alex_. From the very beginning of their partnership he knew she was special, but standing here, looking at the baby, he can't help but feel like a proud father. As if reading his thoughts, Monkey seems to sense his presence at the window and stretches his arms out to him.

"He's beautiful isn't he?" comes a voice on Bobby's right. It's Carmen, Alex's older sister, Monkey's biological mother.

"Yes, he is."

"How long have you been here?" she asks. "You look tired."

"I–I don't know. How's Alex?"

Carmen laughs softly. "She's tired, sore," she pauses before continuing, "cranky. Makes me kinda glad I didn't have to go though it. Alex was always the strongest one."

"Yeah …" Bobby trails off. "She's uh … she's the strongest woman I know."

"You should go see her, I bet she'd love a visit from you." Carmen's tone is soft but prodding. "You've been standing here for at least half an hour."

"How—"

"I've been watching you."

"Oh." He's not sure what else to say.

She pats his arm in a way very similar to Alex's own mannerisms. "Tell her," she nods. "Tell her."

"But—"

"Trust me," Carmen comforts. "She won't push you away."

"How do—"

"I'm her sister," she says laughing at Bobby's look of annoyance. "I know. Trust me and trust her. Go to her."

"AmIallowedtospeaknow?" It comes out in a rush for fear of being cut off once more.

"You have my permission," is her joked reply. "Speak now or forever hold your peace."

"Where is she?"

"Maternity Ward room 127."

"Thanks," he says turning to leave. "For everything."

Bobby smiles a final smile at Monkey and Carmen and heads to Alex's room. His thoughts are of all that has happened, both past and present. From the time Alex first told him of her decision to be a surrogate, to now, with the baby born and Alex on her way to recovering, it was all running through his mind at an alarming rate.

Reaching her room, he peers through the glass window and notices a photograph of Monkey already developed and in a frame sitting on the table beside her bed. Bobby smiles at his red, wrinkled face and it certainly is a face he won't forget any time soon. The article about impressions is right. The thirty minutes he'd spent observing Monkey had certainly affected him. His relationship with the child would be a special one. It was his gestation period and her absence that had forced his feelings to surface and now, after his birth, Bobby is ready to take the next step.

"Hey," he says stepping into the room smiling at his partner. "There's something I need to say."

-xxx-

Ten minutes. Six hundred seconds. Six hundred thousand milliseconds. Six hundred thousand million nanoseconds …

And new lives are born.

The End. 

So what do you think? Like it? Love it? Hate it? Let me know and I may promise more! wink wink


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